Art of Interest
by Sloane Ranger
Summary: What will Peter and Neal discover when they take an interest in Universal Heritage Insurance and its personnel when a Van Gogh insured by them is stolen? What will Harold and John make of this different class of FBI agent?
1. Chapter 1

OK, I know I've only recently started another Person of Interest Crossover but the idea for this one came to me last night and when I sat down, it practically wrote itself. For followers of Tangled Webs I promise I won't forget it.

Usual disclaimers apply in that I don't own anything relating to either P.O.I. or White Collar.

Please let me know what you think.

**Art of Interest**

**Chapter 1**

**Metropolitan Museum of Art**

"This is a great day for the Museum, Annie." Museum director Elliot Schultz could barely contain his excitement as he watched the two security guards manhandle the crate into the centre of the room.

Head of Special Exhibitions, Annette Fauberg, was calmer but her body language showed her tension as she nodded her agreement. "The first time Van Gogh's 'Self Portrait with Dark Felt Hat' has been exhibited outside of Europe. It was a great coup persuading the Van Gogh Museum to lend it to us for this exhibition of his work. I can't wait to open the crate, to touch it, to study the brushstrokes, the use of colour and shadow up close."

Schultz chuckled. "Always the art historian, eh? Me; as Director I also have to think of the footfall its display will bring through the exhibition. The publicity has already seen a massive increase in pre-opening ticket sales."

The security guards had placed the crate gently down on the floor and one made his way towards them carrying a clipboard.

"One crate, please sign here to confirm delivery." He thrust the clipboard towards them. He sounded bored. This was all in a day's work to him.

"Just let me open the crate and check the painting hasn't been damaged first, OK?" Schultz displayed the claw hammer he had been holding to the guard, who shrugged and stood back. Closely followed by Annette Fauberg, he strode across the room and knelt down, using the claw to lever the nails securing the crate loose. He finally ripped the side free, spilling straw onto the pristine floor of the gallery. Dropping the hammer he used both hands to clear the remainder of the packing material out. "Ah, here we go..." He suddenly rocked back on his heels, his body stiffening in shock as he stared into the crate.

Annette Fauberg leaned over to see what was wrong and her face turned white. "Oh, my God!" She said. She turned to the guards. "This is the wrong crate. It must be!" With a sinking feeling she knew she was clutching at straws. Given the contents of the crate the chance that this was nothing more than an administrative error was miniscule.

The guard with the clipboard checked the invoice. "One crate for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, invoice number 354675/13" He read, then pointed to the side of the crate where, prominently displayed on a sticker, was the number 354675/13. "This is the crate we was told to deliver here. If there's been a screw up, it ain't down to us, lady."

Annette turned to look back into the crate again. Nestled inside, still partially covered in straw was a square of hardboard with a cheap print of Van Gogh's portrait of himself wearing a dark felt hat carelessly tacked on to it.

Museum Director Schultz turned his head away from the crate. "Call 911." He croaked. "No-one leaves until the police get here."

* * *

**FBI Headquarters, White Collar Crimes Division.**

The team assembled in the conference room as Unit Head, Special Agent Peter Burke began the briefing. He clicked the remote and a picture appeared on the screen behind him. "'Self Portrait with Dark Felt Hat' by Vincent Van Gogh. Stolen sometime within the last seventy two hours." He began.

His Confidential Informant, Neal Caffrey looked up. "Wasn't it being lent to the Metropolitan Museum of Art as the centrepiece of their Van Gogh retrospective?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "The Dutch confirm that they packed it for shipment three days ago. It was transported to a privately chartered jet under tight security and loaded on board. After passing through customs at J.F.K., it was picked up by a private security truck and delivered to the Museum. Only when they opened it," Peter reached under the table and lifted up Exhibit A for the team to see, "they found this." The team studied the print tacked to the hardboard. "Needless to say," Peter continued, "there are no prints. Anyway, back to the Metropolitan, once the Director and Head of Special Exhibitions had finished having kittens, they called the NYPD, and they, realising the international repercussions, couldn't wait to pass it on to us. Neal, tell us about this picture."

Neal studied the ceiling as he replied. "Oil on Canvas, measuring 161/4 inches by 123/4 inches. Painted in 1886, just after he arrived in Paris. It's one of his earliest self portraits."

"What's it worth?" Agent Clinton Jones asked.

Neal shrugged. "Difficult to say at the moment. There hasn't been a Van Gogh sold publically since the late 1990's. That one fetched $71.5 million dollars, adjusted for inflation that would be over $100 million today."

The conference room was suddenly full of surprised and appreciative whistles.

Peter took command again. "O.K., people lets concentrate on the job." He looked towards his Confidential Informant again. "Where would you fence it?" He asked.

Neal laughed. "I wouldn't. It's hotter than special chilli sauce. My guess, Peter, is that it's either been stolen to order by an obsessive collector, in which case it will never be heard from again, or it's being held for ransom. In that case, either the Museum or the Insurance Company will shortly be approached with an offer, if they haven't already."

Agent Dianna Berrigan looked up from her notes. "Do we know how it was stolen?" She asked.

Peter shook his head.

"So, who had the opportunity?" She persisted.

Peter pursed his lips. "From the moment it was crated, there were always at least two people with it at all times. They are all suspects. $70 million dollars can go a long way, even split among several people but, and here's the kicker, only a very small group of people knew exactly what was in that particular crate."

Neal shook his head. "It won't wash, Peter." He said. "The Metropolitan has been pushing the publicity on this heavily. You don't have to be Einstein to figure out what a crate being sent from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam to the Metropolitan in New York is likely to contain."

"Ah, that's where we caught a break." Peter replied. "Five crates were actually sent out using different routes and different carriers. Only the small group I mentioned earlier knew which one was the McCoy and which were decoys."

"And who's in this group?" Clinton Jones asked.

"In the Netherlands, only the Director of the Van Gogh Museum and his P.A. They crated up the five containers. Here in the U.S., the Director and Head of Special Exhibitions at the Metropolitan, and the partners of the Company insuring the painting during transit and while it was on loan." He looked down at his notes. "Universal Heritage Insurance."

He looked round his team. "The Dutch police are covering what happened in Amsterdam but we get jurisdiction from the time it was loaded on to the private jet onwards. Dianna, I want you to lead on interviewing the jet and its crew, Clinton, the security guards. Neal and I are going to the Museum and then on to speak to the partners at Universal Heritage."

* * *

**Metropolitan Museum of Art**

Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Director Schultz and Annette Fauberg stood amid the ruins of five packing cases in the storage room in the bowels of the museum.

"I suppose you've checked the other crates just in case there was a mistake?" Peter asked; looking around him as Neal bent down to examine the crate closest to him.

"Of course we checked the other crates. We tore all five apart. Look around you! That was the first thing the police suggested." Director Schultz snarled, the bald spot on his head shone with perspiration and his jowls wobbled over his creased suit. "What kind of question is that? When the cops handed this over to the F.B.I., I thought we would be getting a somewhat higher standard of investigative technique."

Neal looked up. "What were in the dummy crates?" He asked.

"Blank canvas stretched over a frame so the weight felt the same." Annette Fauberg replied. She had found time to put on some make-up so her plain but kindly face showed no signs of the strain she was under. She pointed towards one wall, where the canvasses leant. "They're all stacked up over there." Neal went to examine them.

"O.K. so, I understand that, as far as the museum here is concerned the two of you were the only people to know which of the crates held the real Van Gogh…"

"What are suggesting Agent, that one of us stole the painting?" Schultz looked close to exploding.

Peter held up his hands in a peace gesture. "I'm just confirming the facts I was given, Director." He responded. "Now, I want you both to think hard. Is there any way someone else could have found out which of the crates held the real painting? Could you have left the documentation out someplace where, say a personal assistant or museum worker could have seen it? It's easily done. For instance, you're checking the manifest, you get a call and someone comes in when you're distracted. Can you remember anything like that happening?"

Schultz and Fauberg's eyes focussed inwards for several seconds but, finally, both shook their heads.

"O.K. What about members of your family, boyfriends, girlfriends, just friends, could you have let something slip to them?"

Annette Fauberg was the first to shake her head. "I have few friends, Agent Burke. Most of them I've known since college. I trust them implicitly. We've talked about the exhibition, of course, but even so, I knew how important security was and I am absolutely certain I never mentioned anything that would compromise the shipment."

"And my wife and I live alone since the kids left home. She's not interested in art and we never discuss it." Director Schultz added.

Peter sighed. Well at least the suspect pool wasn't growing, he consoled himself; and that focussed suspicion on the small group officially in the know. "Who came up with the idea of the decoy crates?" He asked out loud.

"The Insurance Company." Director Schultz responded. "They said they had used it successfully before."

"Are they your regular insurers?" Neal asked.

"They're one of several we go to for quotes but, as they were sponsoring this particular exhibition, they gave us a particularly good deal." Annette Fauberg replied. She held out a pamphlet, which she had been clutching and Neal took it.

"The Genius of Van Gogh." He read and, underneath, in smaller lettering, "Sponsored by Universal Heritage Insurance." He studied the cover design, "This is very nice, a little different from the standard representations of the artist's best known works you usually get." He noted.

Annette nodded. "It was done by a friend of mine, Grace Hendricks. She's a very talented illustrator.

* * *

**Universal Heritage Insurance **

The two men sitting at the head of the table rose as Peter and Neal were shown into the luxurious conference room. Peter and Neal walked to meet them, their feet sinking into the deep pile carpet.

"Why don't we have a conference room like this?" Neal asked under his breath.

"Be grateful for what ours doesn't have, like bars on the windows and doors." Peter replied, equally softly. He smiled as he reached the head of the table and held out his hand. "Special Agent Peter Burke and my associate Neal Caffrey. Thank you for seeing us." He said.

"Considering that we're hoping you can save the company a $100 million pay out, it was the least we could do." A tall grey haired man, with the healthy tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, responded. "I'm Stamford Gates and this is Thomas Ischon." His handshake was firm and dry.

Thomas Ischon, whose dark hair was beginning to recede at the front, also shook hands. His grip was not as strong but did not display any signs of undue strain or guilt. "Sit down." He invited their guests. "Do you want anything to drink, coffee, tea?" When Peter and Neal shook their heads, he continued. "We'll just wait for Harold to arrive and then you can ask us whatever you want."

"Harold?" Peter asked.

"Harold Wren, our other partner." Gates answered.

"I see; I wasn't aware there was a third partner. All the paperwork relating to the policy insuring the Van Gogh is in your names."

Ischon chuckled. "That's Harold for you. He's the shy, retiring sort."

Gates gave his partner a look. "Harold was involved in a serious accident a couple of years ago." He explained. "He wasn't expected to live, much less regain the use of his legs. He proved the doctors wrong on both counts but, ever since then, he's semi-retired from active involvement in the company. He comes into the office once or twice a week and is involved in all major decisions on corporate strategy but keeps away from the day to day stuff."

"Was he involved in the decision to insure the Van Gogh?" Peter asked.

"He pushed for us to sponsor the show, insuring the painting followed on logically from that." Inschon said.

Neal opened his mouth to say something when the sound of uneven footsteps approaching down the uncarpeted corridor interrupted him. The door swung open to reveal a well dressed man of about 5 foot 9 inches in height, his brown hair grew down the side of his face in unfashionable sideburns. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room through thick rimmed glasses, turning his body to take it all in. Apparently satisfied, he limped forward, his posture unnaturally upright and held out his hand.

"I'm Harold Wren." He said. "Not so much a sleeping partner, more a cat-napping one."

T.B.C.


	2. Chapter 2

New update for this story. The next update for Tangled Web (my POI/L&O:SVU crossover story) will be up within the next few days.

Hope you enjoy. Thanks for everyone who's made this a favourite or become a follower. Special thanks for everyone who's reviewed. Please keep the feedback coming.

**Art of Interest**

**Chapter 2**

_The door swung open to reveal a well dressed man of about 5 foot 9 inches in height, his brown hair growing down the side of his face in unfashionable sideburns. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room through thick rimmed glasses, turning his body to take it all in. Apparently satisfied, he limped forward, his posture unnaturally upright and held out his hand._

"_I'm Harold Wren." He said. "Not so much a sleeping partner, more a cat-napping one."_

**Universal Heritage Insurance**

The social amenities over, Peter and Neal re-took their seats and watched as Wren made his halting way to a chair and carefully sat down, once seated he looked towards Stamford Gates, who said.

"Now we're all here, I want to take this opportunity to assure you that Universal Heritage Insurance will co-operate fully with your investigation, Agent Burke. What do you need from us?"

"Let's start with some background information; the use of decoys is an established procedure for your company?" Peter asked.

With a glance towards Wren, Inschon answered. "For the transportation of high value items, yes. We've been using it since the company was founded. We've worked on the principle that you can't keep the arrangements secret, too much bureaucracy involved, so the next best thing is to provide potential thieves with multiple targets."

Gates took up the story. "If they don't know which is the real item; they're taking a lot of risk and effort with the possibility of no pay-off." He shrugged. "It's a deterrent."

"Unless there's a leak." Neal pointed out.

Gates eyes flicked towards Wren as he replied. "It's always a possibility but we keep the number of people who know which is the real item to the absolute minimum. In this case, outside of the three of us, only four individuals had that information, the Director of the Van Gogh Museum and his assistant in Amsterdam and the Director of the Metropolitan and the Head of Special Exhibitions here. I can assure you that if there was a leak, it didn't come from any of us. As for the others, all of them are people of high repute and good standing in their profession." He waved his hands. "One of them may have let something slip even after they were warned about the importance of maintaining strict secrecy but I can't believe any of them deliberately revealed the information. It would be the end of them professionally, not to mention the risk of jail time."

"We've spoken to Director Schultz and Ms Fauberg. They both say there was no security breach at their end." Peter observed, "and the Dutch tell us the Director of the Van Gogh Museum and his assistant are saying the same thing."

"One of them may be mistaken." Inschon noted. "But have you considered that this may be a crime of opportunity? Even if they didn't know exactly what they were transporting, the jet crew and security guards must have known it was considered valuable. Isn't it possible that, someone; somewhere gave into temptation?"

Peter nodded. "That can't be ruled out but it's unlikely. At least two people were with the painting at all times. I could believe that one person might give in to sudden temptation but not two. Besides, we have to remember what they left in its place…"

Gates and Inschon looked puzzled, while the side of Wren's mouth quirked.

"A reproduction of the painting they stole, suggesting premeditation. There's also a degree of ironic humour involved, unlikely for an inexperienced thief."

Peter nodded, while Neal asked.

"How does it work? What's the process?"

Gates paused before answering. "We number the routes one to five. A computer randomly selects which number route to use and we send a secure message to the consigner giving them that number at the last possible moment. Once all the items are en-route, we send another secure message to the consignee giving them the number. That way, even if a thief got hold of the route details there's no way they would know which one we were using until it was too late."

Neal sat back and considered. "Could someone have hacked your computers?"

Wren spoke. "I'm not an I.T. expert but we use the latest IFT software. We were assured when it was installed that there's no way our firewalls could be breached without an alert being sounded."

"O.K." Peter said. "One last question for the moment." He glanced towards his confidential informant. "I'm told that the painting may not so much have been stolen but kidnapped for ransom. Has anyone approached you offering to sell it back?"

The three partners indicated in the negative.

* * *

**Peter Burke's car on way back to F.B.I. Headquarters**

"Well, that was helpful." Peter, dryly, remarked. "How would you steal the painting, Neal?"

His confidential informant grinned. "I wouldn't, I'm a reformed character!" He thought. "No matter how many routes are used, all the crates start out at the Van Gogh Museum and end up at the Metropolitan. I'd make my move at one of those locations. The trick would be to get hold of the route number so I knew which one to hit."

"So, one of our seven upstanding citizens is either indiscreet, a patsy or a master criminal. You got a favourite?"

Neal considered. "I can't speak about the Europeans but, if we're going with indiscretion, I'd look at Shultz or Ms Fauberg as they're the least experienced with this type of security procedure. Also, even if the computer system at Universal can't be hacked, and we don't know that for sure, we don't know about either of the museum's I.T. infrastructure.

Peter nodded. "I'll have them all checked."

"Patsy's - Director Schultz would be my pick. He was very on edge when we talked to him. It could just be the theft itself but maybe it's more than that. If you're looking for potential criminal masterminds, my money would be on either Annette Fauberg or Harold Wren."

The car swerved. "Ms Fauberg I can see. She seemed very calm when we spoke to her. Maybe too calm, but that little guy, he acted like a college professor in a $3000 suit and it looked like his accident banged him up real good."

"Wren's got a mind like a steel trap. You must have noticed how quickly he caught on to the implications of the reproduction replacing the real painting. Gates is the public face of the firm. He's the guy who keeps the clients sweet, uses his contacts to bring in new business. Inschon, he's the nuts and bolts man, making sure everything runs smoothly. Wren, he's still the shot caller, the real boss. Didn't you notice the way the others looked at him before speaking? He wouldn't need to be actively involved in the actual theft, just its planning."

Peter nodded. "When I get back to headquarters I'll start digging into the backgrounds of our five main suspects, placing particular emphasis on Ms Fauberg and Mr Wren. Obtaining warrants for their financials shouldn't be difficult in the circumstances. The Dutch Ambassador has already started chewing the Secretary of State's ass off about this entire mess. In the meantime, I want you to use your contacts to see if any of them have connections with your former life and occupation."

Neal grinned. "Drop me at my place would you? Mozzie gets nervous if I call him from F.B.I. premises."

* * *

**Metropolitan Museum of Art**

Annette Fauberg never ceased being amazed at the vagaries of the general public. The Museum's switchboard and internet site had been busier than they'd been in years ever since the theft had hit the news. A few people had wanted refunds now that it looked like the centrepiece of the exhibition would not be available for display but far more had actually wanted to buy tickets. She would have liked to think that the additional publicity had awakened an interest in art among a wider audience but she suspected that it was more about people taking a vicarious interest in the theft itself. Either way, pre-opening receipts were actually up and she was on her way to tell Elliot Schultz the good news. She hoped it would go some way towards reducing his stress levels. He had been understandably tense and short-tempered since the theft had been discovered. Her cell rang and she checked the caller I.D. Grace Hendricks.

"Grace. Good to hear from you!" Grace was not only the illustrator for the exhibition's publicity material, she was a close friend, one of the few who did not date back to her college years. "Yeah, I'm bearing up. You know me; always try to think it's a glass half full kind of world. No, there's nothing new about the theft. The F.B.I. has been brought in and they sent two really hot agent's to interview us. I think I'm a suspect! Actually I don't mind if I get more face time with them." She listened to the voice at the other end. "That's real nice of you to think of it. I'd love to come over and share a bottle of Chablis with you. I'll bring the nibbles. Would seven-thirty be O.K? Great, see you then."

As she was talking, she walked through the empty outer office of the Director's executive suite and knocked perfunctorily on his door, which was slightly ajar. She thumbed her cell to finish the call and went in without waiting for an answer. Elliot did not usually stand on ceremony.

Elliot Schultz was also on the phone and he seemed agitated.

"You promised me…" He saw her and snarled. "What is it? Make it quick!"

Annette laid the receipts on his desk. "Good news from pre-opening sales." She said.

The Museum Director barely glanced at them. "Thanks. I got to finish this call…in private." He added as she lingered, concerned by his behaviour.

Schultz turned back to his phone as Annette closed the door behind her. "It was just Annette Fauberg." He said in answer to his caller's question.

* * *

**The Library**

The man known at Universal Heritage Insurance as Harold Wren and to his partner and associates in the work he performed from the Library as Harold Finch, undid the padlock on the iron gates and limped towards the bank of computer monitors on the desk. On the way he bent down to stroke the head of the Belgian Malinois, who settled back down in his basket once it was clear that no food or walk was planned for the immediate future.

"Later, Bear," He promised, firing up his monitors and beginning to type furiously. In a few minutes he had pulled up profiles of Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey. "Ah," he muttered to himself. "I wonder how an upright F.B.I. agent and a thief, art forger and con man come to be working together?" He considered hacking the F.B.I. servers but that was time-consuming, even for him, he decided to defer that for the time being until he had exhausted the other options. A few minutes more and he had the entire story through a combination of Federal Bureau of Prisons and NYPD databases, always easier to hack. "Agent Burke displays both flexibility and imagination." He reflected. "That could become problematic."

Satisfied that he had identified the opposition he turned to his next task, checking the integrity of Universal Heritage Insurance's I.T. system. He did not have to hack them. He had been instrumental in designing and updating them, both as Nathan's Ingram's partner and as a low level employee of IFT and had retained Admin. access. He was certain that they could not be breached without him knowing immediately it occurred but it never hurt to be sure. He ran a series of tests and satisfied himself that the firewalls he had installed had done their job. He exited the system after wiping all evidence of his presence and moved on.

He was beginning to hack the computer system of the Metropolitan Museum of Art as his partner in crime prevention entered the room. The former C.I.A. wetworks specialist moved almost silently, as usual, and it was only Bear's reaction that warned him of the other man's presence.

"Good afternoon, Finch." John Reece greeted his partner/boss as Bear licked him enthusiastically.

Harold turned stiffly towards the other man. "Mr. Reece."

John gestured towards the bank of monitors. "We have another number?" He asked.

"No. This is private research."

John dropped the pretence, holding out a copy of the late edition of the New York Post. "It wouldn't have anything to do with this would it?" He asked.

Harold glanced dismissively at the screaming headlines. "I don't know why you'd believe anything contained in that rag, other than the date at top-right." He said. "And, even if the report is accurate, why would it be any of my concern?"

John tapped the paper. "It says here that Universal Heritage insured the van Gogh for $100 million dollars. That may not concern Harold Finch but I bet it concerns Harold Wren, one of its partners. Is there anything I can do to help, Harold?"

Giving up the charade, Harold said. "No, thank you. This is outside of the work we do here. You should keep yourself free for when a new number comes up. This is Harold Wren's problem." His lips lifted in a near smile. "Besides, the F.B.I. are investigating and I assume you would want to avoid any further involvement with them if at all possible?" He looked towards Bear, who was now capering around Reece's feet. "Actually, there is one thing; could you take Bear for his walk while I infiltrate the Museum servers?"

"No problem." John gave the command for Bear to fetch his leash and departed with the eager canine, leaving Harold tapping away on his keyboard.

Shortly after they had disappeared Harold's cell rang indicating he had received a text message. After checking it, he closed his eyes for a long moment and limped off to find the necessary volumes among the library shelves.

T.B.C.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the next chapter people. I've made up some stuff about Harold's application to M.I.T. In the U.K. colleges and universities want to know loads of background information about applicants and I imagine it's not much different in the U.S. so I have tried to guess what he might have put down. I have also avoided identifying when he met Nathan as there's a problem with the dates.

Thanks to everyone who is following this story or added it to their favourites. Special thanks to those who have reviewed. **Evenmoor** – thanks for the spelling correction. **Afalstein – **you've picked up on some interesting points which will be developed later. **Tharin, Govgal, BalrogsBreath, quoththeraven5, ****Arekanderu****, Rude2 – **thank you all for your support.

Now, on with the story.

**Art of Interest**

**Chapter 3**

**The Library**

John Reese climbed the once elegant marble staircase, Bear treading beside him.

"Maybe Harold will have a treat for you." He murmured to the dog. "Would you like that, boy?" A pleasantly tired Bear wagged his tail in response.

The moment they entered the Library, however, John knew that a number had come in during their absence and making a fuss of Bear was not currently at the top of his partner's agenda. Harold was standing in front of the glass board contemplating the information he had attached to it during his and Bear's absence. Sensitive to the moods of the humans, Bear quietly made his way to his water bowl and began drinking.

"Who is it?" John asked. He put down the leash he had been holding and walked over to the board.

Harold turned to face him, his movements more stiff than usual. "Annette Fauberg." He said.

"The Head of Exhibitions at the Metropolitan? Is this connected to the van Gogh?"

Harold turned back to the board. "As you well know, Mr Reese, I don't believe in coincidences." He said, dryly. He collected his thoughts. "Annette Fauberg, born 1964 in upstate New York, graduated Amherst in 1985 with a good class degree in the History of Art. After college, she worked in various roles, all related to the fine arts until being appointed to her current position three years ago. She is single, no significant other, no dependants. She lives in an apartment on the Upper East Side. She has minimal presence on social media sites and my preliminary investigations show no unusual activity in her financials."

John turned to look at the photograph of a homely, middle-aged woman taped to the glass. "So, victim or perp?" He wondered out loud.

"Victim." The conviction in Harold's voice was absolute.

John raised an eyebrow at the other man. Although Harold could be diverted by a pretty face or a pleasant manner, he was normally evidence driven and such a statement was uncharacteristic of him.

Catching the expression, Harold looked slightly uncomfortable. "She's a friend of Grace's." He confessed.

This was a potential complication. "Does she know you?" John asked.

"We've never met, but…"

He did not need to complete the statement. There were pictures of Harold displayed in Grace's house and so every chance Ms Fauberg would recognise him from them.

John forced a smile. "Looks like you're confined to a background role on this one, Finch."

"On the contrary Mr Reese, while you and Bear were out I contacted Agent Burke and offered to act as liaison between the F.B.I. and Universal Heritage. We are meeting at his office first thing tomorrow."

"Is that wise?"

"Ms Fauberg has already been questioned by the F.B.I. It is inconceivable that a friend of Grace would not co-operate fully with them. Therefore, the probability is that she is being targeted because of something she doesn't know she knows. The most effective way of finding out what that is, is to insert myself into their investigation and seek to direct it into the required channels. In the meantime I need you to keep eyes on Ms Fauberg."

Seeing the worry in his partner's eyes at what the loss of someone else close to her might do to Grace, Reese said, "I'm on it." He looked at his watch. "She's still at work?"

Harold nodded. "Yes, I've hacked the Metropolitan's system and accessed their security camera's. She's in her office."

"I'll get over there. Before you put your head in the lion's mouth, I need you to check out her apartment."

"I'll polish up my housebreaking implements." The billionaire replied.

He watched the former CIA operative leave before going to the next room to retrieve a series of bugs he intended to plant in Annette's home. Before he left the Library he re-filled Bear's water bowl, took some dog candy from a draw and held it out to the Malinios. "Good dog." He said as it was gently removed from his hand. He patted Bear's head and stroked his muzzle. "Op wacht!" He ordered as he went out.

* * *

**Neal Caffrey's Apartment**

Mozzie slurped his coffee. "I'm telling you, Neil, these people are so stand up, it's heart-breaking!"

"No gambling debts, girlfriends, boyfriends?" His partner-in-crime pressed.

Mozzie shrugged. "Ischon has a mistress, got her stashed in a nice apartment in the Village but it's no secret, his wife and partners know about her. He and Mrs I live separate lives. Gates was down a coupla' grand at last Saturday's poker game at the Country Club but he paid up Monday."

Neal sighed. "O.K. So what aren't you telling me?" Mozzie affected a hurt expression. "Come on, Mozz, you've looked like the cat with the cream since you got here!"

The diminutive crook of all trades grinned. "Never try to con a con man!" He sobered. "I checked out their backgrounds like you asked and they're all open books from cradle onwards – all except for one…"

"Never mind the dramatic pause, give!"

"Harold Wren. The first trace I can find of him is in 1976 when he was a freshman at M.I.T. Before that – nothing, nada. According to his application form he was born in Hanover, Ohio. O.K, so it's got a population of less than 1000 and small towns don't have the best rep for record keeping and there was a flood in the Town Hall basement in 1975, which turned a lot of their hard copy records to papier-mâché so they weren't able to back record convert everything to digital but I checked phone books for the area and there's no-one with the last name of Wren listed in Hanover between 1950 and 1976." Mozzie sat back with a self satisfied smile.

Neal considered. "O.K. That is interesting but it doesn't prove anything. Like you said, there's an explanation for why there's no digital record of him before 1976 and maybe the Wren family didn't have a phone, not everyone did back then. What did he give as his contact address when he applied?

"A P.O. Box number, so no help there. Mr Wren is definitely hiding something."

"What about census data or land records?"

Mozzie shrugged again. "You'll have to ask the Suits. The firewalls on the Ohio Land Registry and the U.S. Census Bureau are ferocious."

Neal sat back. "What did Wren study at M.I.T?" He asked.

"He majored in Mathematics with a minor in Business. Graduated top of his class. Went on to do a post-graduate degree, so I guess we should really call him Doctor Wren."

"He told Peter and me that he didn't know anything about I.T." Neal mused. "That seems a little difficult to believe if he studied maths."

Mozzie grunted in agreement. "Especially as he was Nathan Ingram's closest friend, godfather to his son and joint executor of his Will."

"Nathan Ingram is in the founder of IFT?" At Mozzie's nod, Neal went on. "You're right Mozzie. That is very definitely worth knowing. I think Harold Wren deserves a closer look. I'll let Peter know. In the meantime, keep digging."

Mozzie finished his coffee and slouched out of the apartment while Neal made a call. "Peter, I've just found out some interesting facts about Harold Wren… He's coming over to the office tomorrow? Trying to get the inside track on the investigation maybe? Here's what my sources are telling me…"

* * *

**Washington Square**

John sat on the bench usually favoured by Harold, keeping his eyes fixed on Grace Hendricks apartment. He quickly glanced at his watch, it was nearly half past ten. Annette Fauberg had been in there for nearly three hours. He had forced paired her cell phone earlier in the day so he could listen in to their conversation. It was the usual mixture of common interests and general issues to be expected when friends met, occasionally interrupted by the clink of a glass or the gurgle of liquid being poured, from which he guessed that they were sharing a drink. The theft of the van Gogh was, unsurprisingly, a major topic of discussion, but nothing had been said that was not common knowledge or reasonable speculation.

He heard the uneven footsteps of his boss/partner and the softer pad of Bear's paws approaching but didn't turn to greet them. When Harold had joined him on the bench with Bear sitting between them, he asked. "Find anything at Ms Fauberg's apartment?"

"She has excellent taste in décor." The software engineer replied. "Apart from that, no guns under the bed, no piles of money in shoe boxes, no surprises at all. I planted the bugs and downloaded the contents of her hard drive but, so far, nothing out of the ordinary." There was an odd tone in his voice and John knew he had also been listening in to the conversation between Grace and Annette. He could only guess at the emotions coursing through his friend as he heard his lover's voice, so close and yet so far away.

They tensed as they heard Annette saying that she should be going and the sounds of movement inside the apartment. The door opened and both Annette and Grace were silhouetted in the doorway.

"_You sure I can't call you a cab?"_ They heard Grace ask.

"_No thanks. I'll walk to Fifth Avenue and pick up a cab there. I could do with a bit of fresh air to blow away the wine fumes!" _Annette replied.

"_O.K. Keep safe and remember I'm always here if you want to talk."_

"_Good night and thanks again."_

Grace watched as Annette walked down the steps and turned in the direction of Fifth Avenue. Then, with a final wave, she closed the door.

John rose. "Finch, call the town car and get ready to pick me up." He hurried to follow Annette as Finch expertly scrolled through the contact list on his cell.

John had reached the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street to Annette and was walking behind her, just outside her field of vision, when a dark car drove slowly towards him. All his training and experience screamed out a warning. There was no obvious reason for the car to be going that slowly. It was true that the driver might be lost and looking for a specific address but the car was an old, mass produced model and showed signs of neglect. Not the sort of ride someone with connections in this area would be likely to own. He could see that there were two people in the vehicle, the driver and someone in the passenger seat. As it drew level with Annette he saw the passenger twist round and poke something out of the window, something pointing directly at her. He shouted a warning and drew his own gun. Before he could fire, however, a sleek, tawny form streaked past him and leapt at Annette, forcing her to the ground just as the gunman fired. From somewhere behind him he heard Harold recall Bear.

John calmly stepped in front of the vehicle and fired through the windscreen. It shattered under the force of the bullet and the driver slumped forward over the wheel. The passenger, showing more presence of mind than he would have expected from a street thug, pressed down on the accelerator and the vehicle picked up speed. John threw himself out of the way, as the passenger wrestled his dead accomplice away from the steering wheel and took control. John rolled over and lay prone, firing a few more shots at the departing car but it was now some distance away and the hand gun he was using made no impact as it continued to pick up speed. It turned the corner with a squeal of tyres and disappeared.

He checked on the status of their client. She appeared shaken up but unhurt.

"Good thinking, Finch." He complimented his partner.

"I was afraid the car would spin out of control and crash if you killed the driver and Annette injured or worse in the process. If they'd made their attempt only minutes earlier!" Harold's voice was higher than usual and John knew he was imagining Grace caught up in the attempted murder.

The older man steadied himself. "I've called Detective Carter and the police should arrive shortly.

The sound of approaching sirens filled the air and the first black and white pulled into the street. Satisfied that Annette was safe for now, the ex C.I.A. agent, the slightly built billionaire and their faithful companion faded quietly into the night.

**T.B.C. **


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the delay in posting this new chapter, real life intervening.

Thanks, once again to everyone who is following this story or made it a favourite. Special thanks as always to those who have taken the time to review, I am always grateful for feedback. So, a special mention to **BalrogsBreath, Rude2, Evenmoor, Afalstein, quoththeraven5, ShySilentWriter **and **Touch of the Wind** (well you got part of your wish!).

I am sorry if people find this slower and more dialogue driven than the previous chapter, it's basically setting up for the next one.

**Art of Interest**

**Chapter 4**

**FBI Headquarters, White Collar Crimes Division.**

Annette Fauberg sat quietly in the office staring out of the window busy with her own thoughts. She had not slept well, despite the N.Y.P.D. presence outside her apartment. What had seemed like something out of a caper movie staring David Niven or George Clooney yesterday had turned into something much darker. The cops had told her how close she had come to dying. What she could not figure out is why someone wanted to kill her. If that dog had not attacked her…normally she disapproved of dog owners who could not control their pets, but this time she was prepared to make an exception!

She started as the door behind her opened. One of the hot F.B.I. agents she had met before strode forward with a friendly smile on his face.

"Ms Fauberg. I'm Agent Burke. We met before. This is my colleague, Agent Berrigan. Can we get you a coffee or something?"

Annette shook her head. "No, thanks."

Peter took his seat behind the desk and Diana pulled up a chair at right angles, smiling reassuringly at their witness. "I know this is difficult for you but if you can go through what happened again, it could really help us." She said.

"I already told the police everything." Annette protested.

Peter smiled more broadly. "The police were, naturally, interested in who attacked you. We are interested in seeing if there's a connection between it and the theft of the van Gogh." He paused. "Something you remember might help us recover it."

Annette set her shoulders and nodded in agreement.

"Thanks. Now, if you could tell us what happened in your own words…" As he spoke Peter saw Wren, in the company of Neal and Jones, being steered towards the break room, Caffrey chatting to him amiably.

* * *

**Derelict Land near Pier 42**

**Night before**

Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey ducked under the police tape and studied the burnt out vehicle which was crawling with NYPD Crime Scene Examiners under the supervision of a black female detective. Seeing them, she muttered something to the pudgy, middle aged male detective with her and both made their way over to them.

"Joss Carter, Homicide Task Force. My partner, Lionel Fusco." She introduced them both.

Peter nodded to acknowledge the introduction. "Peter Burke, FBI. Neal Caffrey. So, what's the Homicide Task Force's interest in this? I was told Ms. Fauberg was unhurt."

"Yeah, didn't even get a scratch from the dog. Same can't be said for the driver of the vehicle used in the attempted hit. And even douches like him got rights." Fusco growled.

"So, have you been able to I.D him yet?" Neal asked.

Carter gave him a look that could freeze a considerable part of the Sun's surface area and responded to Peter. "No. The body was put in the trunk and doused with gas. It's burnt to a charred husk. If he was carrying I.D. it was either taken off him or burnt along with the body." She shrugged. "I guess we'll have to wait for dental records or see if the M.E. can lift fingerprints from the corpse. Whoever the guy was, he's bound to be in the system."

"What about the passenger?" Peter asked.

Fusco responded. "Looks like he fired the car to cover his tracks and hightailed outa here. CSU are still working the wreck and we'll let you know if they come up with anything."

"What's Ms Fauberg's story?" Neal asked.

This time Carter did not even look at him, responding to Peter. "She says she had just left the house of a friend when she was attacked by a dog. She thinks she heard shots but she was too busy trying to get the animal off her to pay any attention. It was only after the dog disappeared that she realised she'd been in the middle of a fire fight. The dog attack probably saved her life. We dug a shell outa the wall directly behind her."

"Anything on the second gunman?" Peter asked. "The guy who killed your vic?"

"We got nothing, not even a description. Gotta say though, whoever he was, he did as much to save her life as the mutt." Fusco replied.

"Yeah, the question is; what was his motive? Did he set out to save Ms Fauberg or was he after the occupants of the car and her survival simply a collateral outcome?" Peter mused.

"Don't know. If we find him, we'll ask him." Carter said. "I take it you think this is related to the theft of the van Gogh?"

Peter nodded. "Seems too much of a coincidence not to be. I'd like to interview Ms Fauberg if that's OK?"

"Sure. We couldn't stop you even if we wanted to. We got her statement and sent her home under police guard." Carter replied.

Peter nodded. "I'll ask her to come round to the Bureau in the morning." He decided.

The two NYPD detectives nodded and moved away, resuming their management of the crime scene, leaving Peter staring contemplatively after them.

"Detective Carter doesn't like you, Neal." He said.

Neal grinned and shrugged. "To know me is to love me. She just doesn't know me." He gave his companion a sideways glance. "What are you thinking Peter?"

"I'm thinking of the curious incident of the dog in the night-time." Peter replied.

"The dog attacked Ms Fauberg in the night-time." Neal deadpanned.

"And ran away without leaving a scratch on her. That was the curious incident!"

* * *

**The Library**

**Night before**

"Good dog, Bear. Brave dog!" Harold bent down clumsily and petted the Malinois liberally before slipping his hand into the desk draw and extracting a handful of doggie treats, which were quickly wolfed down by the canine, who stood proudly, accepting all the attention as nothing more than his due.

John's phone rang and he quickly answered it. "Hello, Lionel."

Harold gave Bear a final pat and slowly pulled himself upright as he listened to the conversation, while Bear settled himself in his basket.

Detective Fusco's voice came over their earwigs. "Carter's finished interviewing the Fauberg dame and we've sent her home with a police guard so she's safe enough for the moment. She didn't see you and can't give much of a description of the dog except than it was medium sized, short-haired and she thinks it was light coloured. Even so, I'd tell the Professor not to walk Bear anywhere near Washington Square for a while."

"I'll take that under advisement." Harold replied, coolly.

"And of course you're listening in, why am I not surprised?" Fusco grumbled.

"What about the car used in the attempted hit, Lionel?" John asked.

"It was found abandoned and burned out near Pier 42. The body of the guy you shot was in the trunk. No sign of the accomplice."

Harold limped quickly towards the bank of monitors. He stopped and stared at the one on the far left for a long moment, hesitated and then appeared to force his attention back to the conversation. "License plate, VIN number, Detective?" He asked urgently, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Alright, alright, Finch. We already checked. The car was reported stolen by its owner two weeks ago. He's the pastor to a small church in Harlem, highly respected in the community and no priors. Best guess is that it was boosted by some of his less socially responsible parishioners for a joy-ride, then abandoned or sold on. Either way; no leads. We gotta wait to see if CSU can pull up something."

"What about the F.B.I.?" John asked.

"They've been sniffing round. Agent called Peter Burke with an ex-con named Neal Caffrey in tow. Odd thing, bringing a C.I. to a crime scene."

"The relationship between Agent Burke and Mr Caffrey is much closer than is usual between a Confidential Informant and their F.B.I. handler, Detective." Harold told the man.

"It must be. Anyway, you guys need to be careful. Burke's gonna re-interview Ms Fauberg tomorrow at the N.Y. Field Office."

"Thank you, Lionel. We'll be in touch." John terminated the connection and turned towards his partner.

"What's wrong, Finch?" He asked.

"Why should there be anything wrong, Mr Reese?" the billionaire temporised.

John pointed towards the screen Harold had been so interested in earlier. "You seemed concerned by what was on that."

Harold squared his shoulders. "I monitor the internet for searches seeking background information on any of my cover identities. There have been searches into Harold Wren's past emanating from two separate IP addresses in the last twelve hours." His fingers began flying over the keyboard.

"F.B.I.?"

"I've traced the second attempt back to an F.B.I. server." The computer genius confirmed. "The first used a spoofed IP address and has attempted to further confuse the trail by routing the requests through a series of servers, including one in Azerbaijan. I am tracking them to source as we speak...Ah!" Harold sat back with a look of satisfaction on his face which was rapidly replaced with one of frustration. "Whoever it is, they're a competent hacker. They've noticed my attempt to access their computer and turned it off. I'm afraid I've lost them. They know that machine has been compromised and won't use it again."

John was alert. "Root?" He asked.

Harold made the small movement of his head that indicated a negative. "No. I'd recognise her signature."

John leaned down and ruffled Bear's ears. The dog rolled over with pleasure, allowing him to begin scratching his belly. "You can't go to the F.B.I. tomorrow." He said, glancing up. "We know the F.B.I. is looking into Wren and you might run into Ms Fauberg."

"It will look even more suspicious if I don't go." Harold replied. "Let's see what information they were trying to access." His fingers began playing over the keyboard again before glancing back to the former C.I.A. man. "It looks, Mr Reese, like we are going to be pulling an all-nighter."

* * *

**FBI Headquarters, White Collar Crimes Division.**

**Earlier**

The team was meeting in the Conference Room.

Peter glanced at his watch. "O.K. we don't have a lot of time so I'll summarise. The jet crew and security guards check out. According to the Dutch authorities, so do the Director of the Van Gogh Museum and his P.A. so we're down to the five suspects on this side of the Pond. Ms Fauberg is here and Mr Wren is expected momentarily. Jones, you've been looking into Wren's background. What you got?"

"Neal's, err…informant was correct. There's no record of Wren prior to 1976 when he applied to M.I.T. and neither the Census Bureau nor the Ohio Land Registry have any record of any family with that name residing in Hanover, Ohio during the relevant period. The name's an alias."

Peter nodded. "O.K. That kicks him up to the top of the suspect list. Diana, what about the financials?"

Diana Berrigan shrugged. "Pretty standard on all five. None of their bank accounts show any irregular transactions."

"Right." Peter decided. "Diana, you and I will interview Ms Fauberg. I'll meet and greet Wren when he arrives but Jones, I want you and Neal to work him. Push him for information but be discreet. We don't want to make him suspicious." He frowned and glanced at his watch. "He's late." The phone rang and Peter picked it up. "O.K. He's expected. Let him up." He turned and told the room, "That was Reception. Wren's just arrived."

As Diana and Jones were distracted with picking up their files and notes, Neal sidled closer to his handler and spoke in a low voice. "Peter, I need to speak to you, privately."

"Can it wait, Neal? We got guests."

Neal nodded. "Later then."

* * *

Harold pushed open the doors, his face displaying none of the anxiety he was feeling. He and Mr Reese had been extremely busy during the night but not everything could be prepared for. He knew he was still potentially putting his head in the noose. He watched as four people decanted from what the building plans indicated as a conference room and came down the stairs towards him. He recognised Agent Burke and Neal Caffrey from their previous meeting and identified the two others from his research as Agents Clinton Jones and Diana Berrigan.

"_I've got eyes and ears, Harold."_ Mr Reese's reassuring voice came over the earwig.

Agent Burke approached him with a friendly smile and shook hands. "Mr Wren. Thank you for coming. We're very grateful for you taking an interest in this case. Usually we'd deal with your insurance investigator."

"The potential loss of a $100 million buys a lot of personal attention from the partners, Agent Burke." Harold replied dryly.

Agent Burke completed the introductions and Harold murmured the appropriate social responses.

"There have been developments since we last spoke. There was an attempt on Annette Fauberg's life last night." Burke added.

Harold felt four pairs of eyes searching his face for a reaction. "What happened? Is she alright?" He asked, pitching his voice to the right level of concern.

Apparently he passed the test because Burke replied. "She's fine, just a little shook up but we're working on the assumption there may be a connection between the attempt and the theft."

"That seems a reasonable supposition." Harold agreed. "Any leads?"

"We're going to interview her now. In the meantime, Agent Jones and Mr Caffrey can fill you in on the investigation."

Harold felt himself being steered away from the main office towards the break-room, grateful that the F.B.I. were unaware of his nocturnal expedition to the building and the adjustments he had made to its P.A. system allowing Mr Reese to monitor conversations from a van across the street. He tuned in to Caffrey, who was chatting away to him in a friendly fashion and knew that they were attempting to lull him into a false sense of security before the real interrogation began.

**T.B.C**.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the delay in posting this Chapter. I got diverted after suddenly discovering Bones and couldn't concentrate on this or my other P.O.I., story until I had written out a plot idea that occurred to me for a Bones story.

Once again thanks to all who have added this to their favourites or Story Alerts and special thanks to the reviewers, **BalrogsBreath**, **Afalstein, quoththeraven5, ShySilentWriter, Profilerreid, marihun, kiwi and Guest.**

Now on with the story. Sorry it's all exposition in this Chapter but things should hot up next time.

**Art of Interest **

**Chapter 5**

**FBI Headquarters, White Collar Crimes Division.**

"Can I get you something, Mr Wren?" Agent Jones waved towards the small service area in the break-room.

Harold glanced in the direction indicated. The choices of beverages was wider than those he had observed when monitoring the activities of Detectives Carter and Fusco in the Homicide Taskforce but, on the other hand, these were White Collar crime specialists so perhaps their tastes reflected those of their usual quarry. "I don't suppose you have a Sencha Green Tea?" He asked.

Jones looked towards Caffrey, who shook his head and said. "Sorry, but we do have Longjin."

"That will be fine. One sugar please." Harold replied.

As Neal began preparing the drink, Clinton Jones invited Harold to make himself comfortable at one of the tables. "Sorry about the surroundings." He apologised again. "Most of the office space is open plan so this seemed the quietest place to talk now that Agent Burke is interviewing Ms Fauberg in his office."

This was an opening and Harold took it. "Of course. Please don't apologise. Thank you." He said as Neal set the cup of tea in front of him. "As we said earlier, it seems reasonable to suppose that the attack on Ms Fauberg must be linked to the theft of the van Gogh. The question is how? Do you have any hypotheses?"

"Not at the moment. We'll have to see what comes out of the interview." Jones replied. "Do you know Ms Fauberg well? Can you think of any possible connection?"

"I know her by reputation but we've never met." Harold replied. "She is highly respected in her field. I cannot believe she is involved in any way in the crime. The only thing I can suggest is that she has somehow obtained information the criminals believe implicates them without understanding its significance."

Neal nodded. "It's a possibility." He agreed. "In the meantime you should know that we have cleared the jet crew and the security guards and the Dutch police have done the same with the Director of the Van Gogh Museum and his P.A."

Harold sensed both Neal and Jones' keen eyes searching him for a reaction. He took a sip of tea before responding.

"_Steady, Finch." _Mr Reese's quiet voice came over the earwig.

He did not need the warning. Despite what the ex-CIA man might have thought when they first met, he was not exactly a novice when it came to police interrogations. In the circumstances it was best to mention the elephant in the room. "So," he said. "That would appear to leave you with the five of us, here in the U.S. as suspects. As you are aware, our IT Manager has completed a thorough audit of our system, in conjunction with your Cyber Crimes Unit, and no evidence of infiltration was discovered. I assume similar audits took place on the computer systems at the Metropolitan and Van Gogh museums?"

Jones nodded. "Yes. Neither system has been hacked."

Harold knew that to be inaccurate as he had successfully chatted up both systems during the last thirty-six hours but he did not argue as the findings confirmed his own. He inclined his head. "I see."

Jones leaned back and said, conversationally. "I'm surprised you didn't oversee the audit at Universal Heritage yourself, Mr Wren. I understand that you majored in Math from M.I.T., graduating top of your class and were a close friend of Nathan Ingram…"

Harold heard John's breathing change, becoming shallower and faster. They were approaching crunch time, but the ex-CIA operative kept his silence. He mirrored Clinton Jones' body language as well as his back allowed. "As I told Agent Burke, I'm afraid I'm not very computer literate. It's a common misconception that people who are good at math are also good with computer technology, but, unfortunately, the fact that I can formulate an algorithm doesn't mean I can programme it into a computer." He spread his hands. "It's true that Nathan and I were friends but we rarely discussed the technical aspects of his business."

He paused. "But, to return to the point; apparently Director Schultz, Ms Fauberg, one of my partners or myself is either a fool or a crook." He gave a half smile. "I can assure you gentlemen that I am neither and I cannot believe that Ms Fauberg is either. If she was involved in the theft, why should her accomplices try to kill her?"

Neal answered. "It could be a case of thieves falling out, or perhaps your earlier suggestion is right and she knows something but doesn't understand its significance. If there's something to find, Peter will find it. He's very good at what he does."

Harold leaned back and looked at the con man for a long moment, a slight smile on his face. "As you know to your cost, Mr Caffrey?"

The younger man nodded, without any sign of embarrassment. "I see you've done your homework, Mr Wren. Yes, as I know to my cost."

Agent Jones, once again, took up the conversation. "I hope you won't be insulted but, given the situation, we have been checking out all five of the individuals in the U.S. who knew which route the van Gogh was taking…"

Harold switched his gaze towards the other man, his expression turning cold. "I am aware that you have accessed my financial information, Agent Jones. I do hope you obtained a warrant for that!" Harold Wren's partnership in Universal Heritage Insurance together with his investment portfolio had given him a net worth of just over $20 million and his financials were carefully managed to be consistent with that. Putting a little pressure on Agent Jones at this point would demonstrate he was an innocent man with nothing to hide.

"_You've done this before, Harold_." Mr Reese's voice had a light, teasing note in it. Harold ignored the interruption.

"Yes, we did." Jones replied. "We also checked State and Federal Criminal Records and a number of other databases."

Harold raised his eyebrows, his expression giving nothing away. "And did you find anything interesting?" He threw down the gauntlet judging it best to get it all out into the open as soon as possible.

Neal and Jones looked at one another. Given the way the discussion had developed they had, obviously, made the decision to throw out Plan A.

"One of you has…gaps in their records." Jones, said, carefully.

Harold felt Neal Caffrey's eyes piercing him with laser like intensity, waiting for a reaction. But his past and current…circumstances… had made him a practised dissembler. He schooled his expression and body language to show professional interest at a possible lead.

"Indeed." Harold said, calmly. "I performed due diligence on both Stamford and Tom before I entered into partnership with them so I would be very surprised if you had discovered anything…anomalous...in their pasts so that would leave Director Schultz or Ms Fauberg."

Neal Caffrey shook his head. "We're talking about you, Mr Wren. According to records you didn't exist before 1976."

So, Plan B involved a full frontal assault. That suited Harold. "I assure you I did…unless you think I'm some sort of male version of Athena." He responded, straight faced.

"She was the Greek goddess of Wisdom, War and Crafts. According to legend, she sprang fully formed from the head of her father, Zeus." Caffrey explained to Jones.

Jones replied to Harold's challenge. "We think you were born and raised like everyone else, Mr _Wren_." He emphasised the last name. "We also think you changed your name for some reason when you applied to M.I.T."

"That's absurd. I could bring in my birth certificate if you like – long form if you insist." Harold said.

"I'm sure we can clear this up." Caffrey said, smoothly, reassuringly. "You were born and raised in Hanover, Ohio, right?" When Harold nodded, he went on. "Can you explain why there's no record of your family in phone books for Hanover or land records for the area?"

Harold allowed himself to demonstrate mild irritation "Is that all?" He asked. "It's very simple, gentlemen. My father was a supervisor at the Hanover Steel Foundry and we lived in a company house. As for a phone, we used the public one in the local drug store when we needed to make a call."

"OK, that makes sense, but it doesn't explain why there is no record of any family named Wren in either the Ohio Office of Vital Statistics or U.S. Census records."

Harold tensed. The necessary databases had been subverted but he still had to sell the story to the two human beings sitting in front of him, both, by profession and probably nature, better able to spot a lie than most. He frowned. "I can't. My parents both passed away in the nineteen-seventies and I was an only child so that would explain why there's no record in recent Censuses but we should show up in the earlier ones!" His face cleared. "Have you checked variant spellings? It wouldn't be the first time human error has led to information being inaccurately transposed onto a computer."

* * *

**Peter Burke's Office, FBI Headquarters, White Collar Crimes Division.**

Peter leaned back in his chair and listened. Annette Fauberg had almost completed her story of the events of the previous night and, so far, he had found out nothing that had not been covered in her interview with the NYPD, yet alone anything that might assist his investigation into the theft of the van Gogh. She had seen nobody and nothing suspicious before she arrived at her friend's house, nothing unusual had occurred during the time she had spent with her friend and she had noticed nobody hanging around when she left the house.

"…then the dog jumped on me and there was a loud bang, then there seemed to be a gap, then the sound of a car accelerating and some more bangs. I tried to get the animal off me but it was on my back, holding me down…"

"Just a minute, Ms Fauberg. Did the animal try to bite you, claw you?" Diana asked.

Annette shook her head. "No, it just lay there. Then someone shouted 'Come here' and I felt it get off me. I lay there, on the sidewalk for a few minutes. I guess I was in shock. Then, when I got up and looked round, police cars were pulling up and I found out that I had been in the middle of a war zone."

"You didn't see any of the people involved in the shooting?"

"No, as I said, by the time I had recovered enough to look round, it was all over."

Peter leaned forward. "You said that you heard someone call the dog off. Did you notice anyone walking a dog when you left Ms. Hendricks apartment?"

Annette shook her head again. "No. I wasn't paying that much attention. I'm sorry I'm such a terrible witness."

"That's OK. There's no reason why you should have noticed anything." Peter consoled her. "Could you identify the voice of the person who called the dog off you if you heard it again?"

Annette frowned. "It was a man's voice, pitched quite high and dry sounding, you know? I think he might have been foreign."

"What makes you say that?" Peter asked.

"He had an accent. When he said 'Come here', it sounded more like 'Komm heer. I'm sorry, that's all.'"

Peter rose. "Thanks for coming in. You've been very helpful. I'll make arrangements for you to be driven back to your apartment."

Annette rose in response. "If there's anything more I can do to help you find the painting, please ask." She paused. "Do you think, the people who tried to kill me will try again? Why do they want to kill me in the first place?" She asked, urgently.

"We don't know at the moment, Ms Fauberg but we will ensure you're kept safe until we do."

She nodded and shook hands before leaving the office.

Diana Berrigan turned to her boss. "This dog walker is a potential witness at the very least. I'll liaise with Detectives Carter and Fusco to canvass the neighbourhood in case he's a regular there. Maybe someone will recognise a guy with a foreign accent walking a medium sized, short-haired dog."

Peter nodded. "Do that, Diana but I'm not sure it will help much." Seeing her enquiring look, he added. "The dog attacked her and pinned her to the ground but didn't so much as scratch her. That doesn't sound like an out of control dog to me. Did you know that some military dogs are trained to respond to commands in Dutch?"

Diana looked thoughtful. "And 'Come here' in Dutch is 'Kom hier'. She frowned. "If you're right, is it a coincidence that she was attacked by a dog which responds to Dutch commands so soon after a valuable painting by a Dutch artist was stolen?"

Peter grinned. "I don't know. It's something for us to find out, and remember, she wasn't so much attacked by the dog as saved from being murdered by it. The plot thickens! Now, let's see how Neal and Jones are getting on with the enigmatic Mr Wren."

* * *

**Metropolitan Museum of Art**

The cell phone buzzed and Elliot Schultz's heart thumped with dread. His hands were unsteady as he answered. "You tried to murder Annette Fauberg last night. You promised me that no-one would get hurt." He said.

He listened to the response, "She didn't give our earlier conversation a second thought. Please don't try to hurt her again!" The voice on the other end responded and all the fight left him. "All right, all right, I'll do whatever you say, just prove to me that he's still alive, please!"

**T.B.C.**


End file.
